


Sharing

by FilthyUntouched



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BDSM, Barebacking, Breeding, Choking, Clothed Sex, Cock & Ball Torture, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Sex, Cuckolding, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Gangbang, Genital Piercing, Groping, Held Down, Impact Play, M/M, Multiple Penetration, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Nipple Torture, Oral Sex, Original Universe, Overstimulation, Painplay, Prostitution Roleplay, Rape Fantasy, Scratching, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Size Difference, Size Kink, Skull Fucking, Snowballing, Spanking, Spitroasting, Tattoos, Under-negotiated Kink, Uniforms, Urethral Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FilthyUntouched/pseuds/FilthyUntouched
Summary: Aylas tends to get lost in thought at the many, many enticing fantasies that populate his mind. Luckily, Vilak is smart enough to know when he needs to enlist help.The two explore their respective kinks in a safe, consensual and loving relationship.
Relationships: Cadell Penry/Aylas, Original Elf Character(s)/Original Human Character(s), Original Elf Character(s)/Original Orc Character(s), Vilak/Aylas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fiction. The main characters are in a steady relationship and consent is implied when it's not explicit. Unless otherwise stated, the sexual acts depicted are performed by consenting adults.  
> I'm not an expert; before engaging in sexual acts depicted here, do your research and be mindful of your and your partner's needs.
> 
>  **Main themes** will involve: BDSM and D/s relationships; Cuckolding and open relationships; a variety of kinks, fetishes and sexual practices; genital piercings, tattoos and other types of mild body modifications.
> 
> Check the tags to stay up to date with new additions to the story!

The orc's throbbing length insistently makes its way into Aylas' body, wedging itself into his depths and caressing places no one had ever reached before, inexorable with the eagerness of penetration despite the generous handful of tallow. The elf shakes with pleasure, a string of moans and groans slipping from his berry-crimson lips when they're not busy hissing at the pain of steady invasion.

His own member is caught under his weight, leaving him no room to relieve himself; all he can do to soothe the aching caused by lust is to shamelessly rub his groin against the coarse woolen blanket that had been haphazardly thrown over the orc warrior's cot in a poor attempt at shielding the sheets.

Vilak towers behind him, his powerful orcish body still bound by standard-issue clothing, bulging every time his biceps flex, with every thrust produced by his corded thighs, threatening to burst open from the effort of rutting into his lover. His uniform is still untouched, save for his lowered breeches, trapped and taut around his muscled legs, just past his ass and squeezing his balls upwards against his rigid cock. Aylas' few items of clothing lie in disarray, sporting a few ripped stitches to ease access, and boots thrown about the floor. His linen tunic has been ripped nearly in half, the hemline reaching his navel and causing the entire garment to slip off his shoulder. The back of the shirt is just as battered where Vilak’s claws couldn’t help but tear into the fabric. His trousers have blessedly been saved from the attack, or else the walk of shame back to the house would earn an entire different meaning.

The elf can feel wetness spreading between his cheeks and down his thighs from the steady pumping of his lover into his hole. The thick grease Vilak kept next to his cot, meant to buff his leather boots, vambraces and greaves is slick and fragrant against the blistering warmth of his ass and cheeks. In the throes of raw, unrestrained fucking, Aylas finds some clarity to picture himself, sprawled on the bed and rendered speechless by Vilak’s cock splitting him - he must have looked a mess, with his chestnut hair curling and tangled and his back slick from sweat and spit, and greasy handprints smeared along his spine, shreds of clothing sticking to his skin, parting to reveal possessive claw marks and fingerprint impressions.

The orc pounds away at his ass steadily harder, picking up speed and breaching deeper, and God his prick feels  _ endless _ , pistoning in and out so fast Aylas can’t even tell which direction it’s going anymore. In the rush of copulation, Aylas manages to blurt out a tortuous sentence, scattered and almost nonsensical, interrupted by swears and pleads for more. Punched out of his throat with every punishing stroke.

"I don't understand...  _ Oh, fuck! _ Why you can’t come back h-  _ Ah, oh fuck, yeah, harder! _ Come back home. But I see the charm...  _ Shit, ah, yeah, right there! Fuck! Fuck, yes! _ Fucking in the barracks."

Both of them are perfectly aware that Aylas shouldn't be here in the barracks, shouldn’t have been allowed inside the camp at all, really; but doesn’t the thrill of being discovered by a superior or, even better, Vilak’s entire squadron, make their rutting all the more filthy and  _ dangerous _ ? The elf could nearly go insane from the sheer amount of possibilities Vilak’s job could lend itself to.

Lonely and stuck in their routines, mindlessly doing drills and marching all day long, the rest of the soldiers stationed in the city would've given an arm and a leg to violate the tender flesh of a willowy, pliant, elven whore. What they wouldn’t have paid, just to have a turn taking his ass, uncaring of his protests, thankful to have a warm hole to use for release even once the fit isn’t snug anymore, and he’s loose with dozens of loads, muscle memory from hours of reckless pounding. And once his bottom couldn’t take any more, they’d use his mouth, or push thick cocks between his clenched thighs, rolling their lengths up and down the crack of his ass, using all of him.

And both of them are very keenly aware of this, too.

It hasn’t escaped Vilak’s attention that his elven lover has an inclination to let his fantasies overtake him, and the orc can immediately understand the underlying purpose in Aylas’ statement.

"Charm? You mean that you'd like me to call over my recruits, to share you and pass you around like a doll, until you’re split open over two, three cocks at once? Four, even? You’d want to please every single of one them, to swallow their cum until it feels like you're drowning - wouldn’t you? Is that what you want?" he snarls under his breath right in Aylas' ear, with a fake edge of jealousy tinging his words. In truth, the two are very aware that the image of the elf’s body exposed to a room full of viciously aroused soldiers to do with his as they please is very, very enticing.

The inquiry is followed by Vilak’s possessive hold upon Aylas’ body, and he grabs the soft skin of his hips, handfuls of flesh trapped in his clawed grasp, to pull him up to his knees over the blanket. The change in position lets the elf's cock free to sway under his body; the tip is drooling with precome and red from rubbing against the rough wool, and his prick is a straight arrow, pulled down by gravity and a thick ring glistening with clear fluid.

Every word of Vilak’s dirty talk is accentuated by thrusts, each more vicious than the one before it, until Aylas' frothy asshole is bouncing rhythmically against the orc's legs, his heavy balls slapping painfully against the elf’s own, smarting and swollen with denied release.

"Fuck! Yes, yes!  _ Ruin  _ me, all of you! Fill me, choke me, do what you want with me!"

"You don't know what you ask, little whore."

A full-body shiver courses through Aylas at the term of quasi-endearment, his mind hypnotically echoing back at him " _ your whore, your whore, your whore, to do with as you please _ ".

"I do! I want it!" he complains. And yet, despite the growing desire to be defiled by dozens of burly, rough soldiers he still doesn’t raise his voice enough to be discovered, and he doesn’t call out for anyone passing past the barracks, for a stranger’s hard cock. He keeps quiet, moaning and sobbing wantonly under the weight of his lover.

Until he finally comes, a hoarse, strangles scream of pleasure wrung out of him after a long assault to his senses. As Aylas melts in a puddle of weary limbs, crushing his sensitive prick under himself, a litany of softly spoken " _ next time, next time I want all of them _ " dribbles from his lips.

With a last powerful groan, it’s Vilak’s turn to chase his own orgasm. He grasps the globes of Aylas' asscheeks in a possessive, white-knuckled grip, leaving red claw marks across his bottom and around his waist. It's a beautiful sight, to see his thick, veiny cock trapped between the mounds of his pale, freckled and freshly marked ass, the dusting of chestnut hair sticking to his groin, squelching with the slickness of fragrant, foamy tallow, churned into his hole like warm butter and filling him to the brim. Then, the view bolstering his animalistic focus to spend inside his lover, Vilak’s dick pulses with release, and ribbons and ribbons of cum join the load already sitting into Aylas' ass from that morning.

The orc sighs with relief, collapsing over his lover, covering his back and then some, crushing him with his heavier frame, all smugness and entitlement and  _ mine _ .

"I soiled your cot. Will you get grief for it?" words have returned to the spent elf, and he can string together rational thoughts again, his mind clearing somewhat.

"Nah, I have ways to change the bedsheets without anyone noticing. Got an arrangement with the guy washing the linens." Aylas twists around as much as their position would allow, letting the orc whisper the sentence into his neck, peppering it with wet kisses and licking the sweat off his skin with each word. Curious to know what sort of arrangement, he schools his expression into one of disinterested curiosity, mouthing an interrogative " _ oh _ ".

"In exchange for his silence, he wants me to explain how I managed to get them in this state. I hope you don't mind that I tell him just how filthy you are.  _ We  _ are."

"You know I don't." he scoffs, and already Aylas can feel the renewed stirrings of arousal at the discovery that their cavorting is being spread around camp like randy pornography. Tales of his whoring already in every soldier’s thought when they rub themselves off in the feigned privacy of dozens of identical cots, each filled with someone picturing the elven slut who trespassed into camp only to be violated by their precious officer.

He entertains the idea, but after a few moments of silence and laboured breathing, Aylas' cheeks redden with shame, or propriety, and he speaks, under his breath, low and almost imperceptible.

"I meant it. About the others. When you get home I want to discuss it. I'm spent for today but I  _ know  _ the thought won't leave me until we properly talk about it. Been thinking about it for a while now, too... "

"I know you have. I promise we'll talk about it. You can tell me anything, there's nothing you can say that will drive me away from you. You're too perfect."

"Nothing? At all? Don't make promises you can't keep." The elf exhales with a bitter laugh, old insecurities creeping into the fading afterglow.

The orc hums as if to say " _ I don't, I mean it _ " (and aren’t they so blessed to understand each other so thoroughly?), and pushes one hand between Aylas and the coarse blanket, to close his hand around the elf's flaccid prick, soft and small and fitting perfectly inside his loose fist, tender and with an heavy platinum cockring running into his slit and out through the frenulum. They both remember how thin the piercing used to be, before they began,  _ together _ , stretching his hole, using larger and larger jewelry to breach were few others have dared touch.

"You're perfect. My perfect little whore. I love you more than words can say." Locking the confession with a sweet, languid kiss.

Another moment in silence passes, then the orc starts rummaging through the soiled linens, searching for the discarded tempered glass plug Aylas had worn when he’d sneaked into camp barely half an hour ago. Finding it, he polishes it against the already ruined sheet before carefully sitting up across Aylas' thighs, his cock softening inside the elf's painted hole but still valiantly trying to stay to half mast.

With a soft slurping sound that makes Aylas whimper with arousal at the prospect of an encore, the Vilak slides his length out from its seat. At the loss, the elf can’t help but clench, and yet a thin string of pearly cum still escapes, running down his taint. Tutting his disapproval, the orc swipes the tapered point of the toy across the velvety sac, pushing the overflowing seed back into Aylas' hole. The elf doesn’t have the time to feel empty; with some pressure, the plug easily breaches past the ring of muscle and sits snugly into Aylas’ body, large enough to ensure nothing escapes him even as he endeavours to walk back home across a camp full of soldiers. They would probably be able to smell his lover on him and  _ oh _ , if only they knew how far inside him that musk goes. Aylas wonders if there are any warriors in the camp with the balls and stamina necessary to wreck him and attempt to replace his lover's seed with their own. Wouldn’t that just be the beginning of a never-ending competition to mark his body, to breed him like a pair of prize studs would a mare? Each man trying to surpass the other, one’s manhood dominating over the other’s - and he just a vessel for all of their cum, powerless to fight back.

Vilak catches him lost in thought, as he’s wont to do, correctly guessing that the elf might be indulging in yet another depraved fantasy he'd eventually have to share with him; before night falls and the evening bell rings across camp, calling every soldier to attention, he urges Aylas to dress with his scant, half-ripped tunic and trousers, offering an embarrassed “ _ sorry _ ” at the state of his clothes.

Shaking his head to clear his mind and to reassure the orc that his shirt had it coming, the elf returns to the task at hand, secreting his latest fantasy to a corner of his brain he'll revisit later, once he's home - awfully alone with only his lover's spend keeping him company in the house they're supposed to be sharing. Just then, he's eternally grateful the orc hasn't yet barred him from masturbating, because some nights when he misses the feel of a solid body in bed next to him and rock-hard cock poking at his backside, furiously jerking off to thoughts of clandestine romps in the barracks is all he can do to stay sane.

Aylas gathers himself, pulling uselessly at his clothes in a pretense of modesty and, before the orc has the time to be done ogling the red scratches running around the elf's perfect ass and fix his own wrinkled uniform, Aylas drops to his knees at the feet of the bed. In the silence of the barracks, the sounds his mouth and tongue make as he licks his cock clean of cum and tallow are  _ obscene _ , and much louder than they have any right to be. The elf slurps, suckles and swallows soundly, smacking his lips with smug satisfaction, like a cat that got to the cream, once he's done with his feast; he looks exactly how you'd expect someone wanting to make you hard again at the most inopportune of times would look like. Devilish, lewd, truly a whore through and through.

He couldn't have found such a debauched elf if he'd looked for it. Luckily, Aylas had come to him, first. Choosing Vilak among thousands of rugged warriors who could've done the job he needed done just as well as he had, in the end. The job had consisted in fucking the elf within an inch of his life to help him forget the grief his family had subjected him to. But what had come afterwards... well, for what Aylas needs, he's probably the only one who can do right by him. Keeping him stuffed and content, loving him every which way the elf needs him to. Vilak wants to believe he’s the one fit for that role.

"You sly cocksucker, you're trying to make me hard again." It's not a question, and he grasps Aylas by the face, his larger hand trapping his cheeks easily between thumb and fingers, making his still-wet lips pout outwards. He hauls the elf to his feet using what can't possibly be a comfortable hold, and the elf’s neck stretches upwards first before Aylas' body is set into motion and scrambles up. Even at his full height, he's still a fair deal shorter than Vilak, with his mighty orcish build, not to mention that he's standing on the floor while his lover is kneeling on the cot. The orc closes the distance between them and now it's his turn to lick Aylas clean, his tongue catching stray smears of his own seed across the elf's chin and mouth. Then, with a searing, passionate and yet tender kiss, the two bid each other goodbye.

Aylas turns on his heels and sneakily exits the barracks, looking left and right before crossing the distance between the door and the next building over. Vilak pushes his plumping cock into his smalls, willing himself to cool it before everyone at camp catches him with tented pants and connects the dots. He then makes a bundle of his sheet and blanket, leaving his cot barren save for his untouched, paper-thin pillow and a drying spot on the mattress where the flood of Aylas' release must've wetted it and, waiting a reasonable minute before exiting, he follows outside after the elf on his way to the stockroom to procure clean bedclothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By personal choice, the nature of this story will likely **not involve** consent issues, cheating and angst.  
> My objective with this work was to explore a loving, caring relationship where the partners have complete freedom to partake in different kinks and have a healthy sex life without fear of judgement, repercussions or obstacles. For this reason, consent issues and themes of cheating will be notified in the content warnings at the start of relevant chapters (if any).
> 
> If you have other themes that are cause of discomfort, don't hesitate to comment so that I can warn for those appropriately. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aylas finds himself with more than he bargained for, but he treasures every chance he gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Brief under-negotiated kink (with subsequent explicit consent and checking in); Groping
> 
> Remember to check the tags!
> 
> This is a work of fiction, I'm not an expert on sexual practices; anything depicted here should not be taken as advice or emulated without proper research. Enjoy your sex life responsibly!

When Aylas finally reaches the house, he barely has the time to lock the door behind himself before leaning against it panting, shoulders slouching and stomach churning with  _ hunger _ . Without even taking his coat off or dropping his bag to the floor next to the entrance, he rips aside the flap of his trousers and pulls his angry-red prick out. Furiously, he starts stroking it, uncaring of jostling ring and sending clear drops of precum all across the floor. The long sleeves of his coat keep falling over his hand, and he has to resort to biting the bunched-up fabric next to his shoulder to prevent it from drooping down. The spot where  _ he _ had touched him, is still smells faintly of lit braziers and whiskey. His face is scrunched up in a mask of frustration against his arm, and drool is already darkening the sleeve’s fabric.

Following the fantasy he'd indulged in before leaving the barracks (Vilak and a faceless stranger competing over who gets to stake a claim over him,  _ oh God _ ), he really hadn't needed what had happened next, but evidently luck wanted him to rub his cock raw from sheer arousal at the day's collective events.

The day had started with a visit from his lover. He'd thought he was finally back for good - or at least back to stay for a little while before his duties at camp required his attention again - and was disappointed to discover it had only been a courtesy call to bid him good morning. The bad news had to be tamped down with a good, lengthy fuck in bed. Gentle and loving, Vilak had taken him from the front, looking into his eyes as he spilled hot and deep, appeasing him with a touch of depravity - some light torture to start the week right. He'd flicked and twisted at his nipple rings, pulling and spitting on the reddened nubs before viciously massaging the warm metal into the tenderized flesh. It had felt so good, he'd felt so thoroughly loved and cared for. His ass and entire  _ soul  _ ached at the thought that his lover would be gone for another week, but he was going to have to cope with it.

He'd be only across the city, but still Aylas would've had to sleep alone in their bed until his return.

After much whining, the orc had decided to negotiate a truce with his loving brat of a partner. He would be back to visit as often as possible in the mornings unless something came up that prevented him from doing so  _ and _ ...

_ At that point, Vilak had bent down to reach into the bottom-most drawer of the nightstand to fish out a glass plug, bigger than average and obscenely girthy where it reached its widest point. Before Aylas could be surprised by the sight of it, already the orc was jamming the implement up the elf’s sore ass, trapping his generous load within, uncaring of any activities Aylas had to attend to during the day. "This way I'll stay with you all day long. Filling your ass while you work in the shop. The plug will be all you can think of when you're trying to concentrate, pushing my seed up into your guts. My cum just sitting there, waiting for me. Tomorrow, hopefully, but God knows when I'll be back to breed your ass again." _

_ Aylas swore under his breath, and immediately ground his hips to test it, pressing his taint and the flared base of the plug against the mattress with a groan. The glass pushed further up, nearly touching that spot inside of him that made him see stars, and he realized just how dangerous it would be for his sanity. Even walking or sitting down threatened to provoke him. It would be the best of tortures and, luckily for him, being steadily, unwaveringly filled all day would've actually improved his attention. _

The orc had left and, with much grief and a rising longing for his lover, Aylas got ready for the rest of his day.

Until the evening.

He'd rationalized that it was unfair to separate him from his partner, especially when the orcish officer had accommodations in the city, making his stay at the military compound completely unnecessary. But duty - namely the latest batch of fresh recruits coming in from the coast - called and he'd had to stay in the barracks, to be ready for reveille and early morning drills. After the first week, he’d reassured Aylas, others would be taking over those tasks, but since it was always good to have Vilak around to beat obedience into the newcomers, he needed to be at the camp. Especially now that several of them seemed to be of orcish lineage like him. They’d respect him, they’d be compliant if orders came from one of theirs.

To tamper the injustice of the situation, Aylas had resolved to visit the orc at work. Not for nefarious purposes, initially. Something almost innocent, he'd meant to drop by on his way to the market before the stalls closed for the day, just to pay his regards to Vilak and his superior, and remind his lover that he was still carrying his precious load and intended to keep it until the next morning, or at least until nature called. But instead of finding the orc surrounded by recruits, he was pointed towards the barracks Vilak shared with other training officers. And there, upon finding him alone next to his primly made cot, all pretense of composure had gone to Hell.

It was only fair, though, that on the first day of forced separation he'd be left with not one, but two gifts and a very, very sore ass. Even his balls stung from the onslaught of powerful thrusts upon his sac. Everything about this last-minute decision had been brilliant, and he would sleep soundly with the memory of today's generous servings of raw, mind-blowing sex.

But that's where his fortune had gone from good to great to frankly unbelievable.

Halfway across the camp, he realized he'd been spaced out for a few minutes, still thinking about everything and concocting a mental image of the ideal hunk that could challenge his lover's claim. Who could perfectly embody the kind of man with a cock large enough to hold a candle to his partner's? Who could boast seed strong enough to dethrone his lover's? He wasn't at all familiar with Vilak’s brothers in arms and the rest of the soldiers stationed in the city, so he'd meandered across camp picturing an array of physical features for the perfect stallion. Wide shouldered with powerful loins to make him feel it in his guts, or slender and fast, to pound away at his hole for hours on end until he's begging to be bred? Tall and menacing enough to fill him with dread at the mere thought of being dominated by not one, but two towering brutes, or short and affable, a languid, gentle, insistent fuck, meaty arms toying with his nipples until he screams for it to end? And the hands, what about the hands, then?

And as he's lost in thought, he stumbles upon a part of camp he'd never been to before on his way in or during previous visits.

He has ended up on the opposite side of where he'd meant to go, and all the walking and fantasising have stirred his cock awake, the plug snugly fixed in place but moving with each tantalizing step..

Quickly, before anyone recognizing him - so very out of place, here - notices the bulge barely contained by his threadbare trousers, he pulls the lapels of his woolen coat across his front. Bundled up, he looks about the camp, trying to make sense of the serpentine rows of tents, makeshift training pits and small scattered buildings around him.

He looks like an urchin, daring to walk among his betters to beg for coin in his ruined clothes and oversized coat.

Aylas really doesn’t feel like wandering at night in the camp, lest he be mistaken for a spy or intruder (which he is, anyway), so the best course of action is to approach someone and ask for directions. And if they ask him what he’s doing here, he’ll mention Vilak - that alone shouldn’t cause him any trouble, it’s not like he’s interfering with war strategies or anything, he merely lost his way after visiting his love.

Close to a squat building, just outside the door, is a lit brazier. It’s neater and smaller in build, perhaps the lodging of soldiers of an higher rank than Vilak? He really doesn’t want to cause him problems with his superiors, maybe it would be better to look for directions elsewhere.

A man, human and bearded, swings the door open, turns to look at someone else inside, stops to listen, then lets out a belly laugh that crosses the clearing separating him from Aylas. Then, the door closes and the man wistfully looks into the fire, flames casting his cheeks and buzzed head of hair in red light.

Aylas approaches, taking care to make himself known before he’s close enough that the man could be startled and attack him, clearing his throat and looking sheepish.

He barely has the time to mutter an “Excuse me” that already the man’s face lightens up and he welcomes him.

“Ah, here you are! Come inside.” stumbling forward, he doesn’t have it in himself to cause a scene here, so he starts towards the door the man just came out of.

When it opens, inside is a study of sorts, stacked with filing cabinets and a desk, upon which sit four glasses of liquor. He’s greeted by the sight of three men. He’d love to remember their faces, but his mind goes blank as he realizes they’re sat in a circle on plush chairs, lax and warmed by alcohol, each of them with the laces of their trousers undone and their cocks in hand. One just holds his prick in place, the other two are leisurely stroking the foreskin up and down the length, chuckling at a joke the other just finished telling.

Speech doesn’t even cross his mind. He’s transfixed by the display of wanton masturbation. Four officers enjoying each other’s company, unashamed to bare their pricks to their fellow man as they chat and drink. And in the middle of all that, there he is. This can only mean one thing…

The door closes behind him, with a cheeky squeeze of his shoulder, the man releases him (he hadn’t even noticed the heavy hand guiding him inside) and announces to the room, “The whore’s here!”

His knees go weak and he almost drops to the floor. The one thing keeping him upright is the resounding slap that follows. Square across both of his asscheeks, the gesture makes him jump forward, carried by the strength of the blow and the novelty of the act.

Luckily for him, it seems like the man hasn’t heard anything besides his surprised yelp, and Aylas can hold back the moan he wants to release well enough to escape notice. The slap hit the plug, hit it and sent it riding further up into his ass; and then he’d clenched reflexively, feeling the girth keeping Vilak’s cum inside him to its full extent, stretching him and locking him up. When his hand flies to his backside, it’s to keep the glass toy inside, but he pretends to rub his smarting ass for good measure. God, today just won’t give him a rest, will it?

Everyone laughs, and the prick at half mast fills up the rest of the way at the sight of Aylas getting spanked. Hmm, he wonders what else would make this nameless, faceless officer aroused. Corporal punishment is known to make its way among the soldiers, and he can’t imagine this particular man ever going to bed without jerking it to a poor recruit’s flogged back or caned thighs.

The bearded man pulls him aside by the sleeve of his coat, and with as low a tone as his deep voice can reach, he checks with Aylas if everything’s all right.

“Twenty gold pieces, as I’ve agreed with the brothel’s owner, plus something for your trouble - getting all the way here at night and all - and then a tip after, if you do well.”

He smiles a kind smile, polite. There are light wrinkles where it reaches his eyes, and peeking out of his thick beard. Smile lines.

Red hair. Hair so short it’s barely a ruddy shadow across the curve of his skull. He’s heavy-set, with a rounded belly stretching the white undershirt and a tuft of curly chest hair poking out where his top button is undone. Meaty thighs, thick with fat and muscle - he can’t imagine the man would be anything but hairy as a bear under his half-undone uniform. And God, what a nice handful is there, filling the front of his breeches. Undoubtedly they’re hiding a plump, rosy cock that suits his frame. Back to his face, there’s something familiar in it, and Aylas gets the feeling that he’s met this man before.

He feels like a fool, admitting he’s not who the human believes him to be, when all he can see in his mind is this red-haired man taking him from behind, slotting the curve of his belly over his ass, using him across the desk at the end of the room, kissing his gaping hole and pouring a mouthful of whiskey inside him while their audience watches on and cums across his face in unison.

“I’m… I’m not a whore. I’m visiting. And I lost my way.”

“Shit!” the man turns him around, shielding him from the others, who are still gripping themselves, but whispering with curiosity and worry as their stroking slows down. “I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I apologize for… “ and he looks down, towards his bottom, contrite and ashamed.

“Don’t. I liked it.” he just can’t help himself, can he? It’s one thing to deny being a whore - he isn’t one, really, not by trade at least - but it’s another to blatantly lie and watch on as a grown man goes red-faced when he’s not the one at fault. Aylas is, for not explaining himself more clearly.

“You sure you’re not here for us?” he chuckles knowingly, easily reading Aylas for who he is. The elf shakes his head forlornly, trying to communicate his secret desires with one longing look.

Then, the man once again grabs him by the sleeve, and together they exit the office.

“If I might ask… who are you? This is no place for a civilian.”

“I came to visit my partner at work. I’m Vilak’s, if you know of him. We live in the city, but he must attend to his duties and I thought… well, I thought I’d be better at sneaking around camp, for one. But I got lost.”

“Vilak… I’ve heard the name. One of the orcs, then?” the man inspects Aylas from head to toes, laughing to himself and nodding along to some thought that just crossed his mind, and isn’t Aylas just dying to know what his assessment is. That he’s too lithe to befit an orc? Or that Vilak has chosen well? “Name’s Cadell Penry. And you are?”

“Aylas. Just Aylas.” Cadell hums in recognition (if he has an opinion about elves without a family name, he doesn’t let it on) and steps closer. He’s quite tall, and he needs to bend forward to whisper in Aylas’ ear.

“So, little one, you’ve got a taste of what it’s like to be whore at a war camp. I have a feeling that you’re curious for more. But I don’t want to impose.”

“I- I… It’s fine. It’s no imposition, Vilak wouldn’t mind, I’m sure. But… back there,” his eyes dart to the locked door, “is that real? Is it a thing that happens, really?”

Cadell laughs. “It is real. Or at least, me and my friends like to have some fun from time to time. I’m sure there’s others around here who got the same idea. Why do you ask? Do you crave it?”

“You’re very insightful, Sir Penry. I’m sure you know a whore when you see one.” he can feel his cheeks burning, and his prick is starting to get interested in the conversation within his loose-fitting trousers, done recovering after the romp with Vilak in the barracks. It’s difficult, but he manages to keep calm as the word “ _ whore _ ” leaves his lips; for all the depravity he entertains with his lover, it hasn’t been often that he’s brought this up with outsiders. The thrill is still powerful, threatening to make him shiver and drop to his knees in front of this burly red-haired human who’s just  _ seen _ into his soul so easily.

Without losing a beat, Cadell turns him around and pushes him against the brickwork of the building. “Is that what you are? A filthy whore? Claiming you belong to someone right before you throw yourself into a stranger’s arms? Does your Vilak know you’d fuck just about anyone here?”

He moans - it’s all he can do. The plug is an insistent reminder, and even the gravelly texture of the wall against his chest and groin can’t placate his arousal. “Mmmyes! Yes, he knows. Once I’m gone, you’d better notify him of this misunderstanding, Sir Penry. I’m sure he’d be happy to know I made it home safe.”

The man’s arm is pushing him, slotted across his shoulder blades. His breath smells of whiskey and suckling pig, so warm as it tickles his neck. His other hand is busy fondling his bottom, groping his plush cheeks before a stinging slap lands with a crack. Aylas whimpers and were he not pinned to the side of the building, he’d be melting to the ground.

“I’ll make sure you do. Let me accompany you to the gates.” is what he says, and yet his hand moves Aylas’ coat off to the side, and sneaks inside his trousers.

Hard callouses and hairy knuckles gently caress his asscheeks and, upon finding the plug, jiggle it around for a few excruciating moments. Excited by the find, Cadell whistles low into Aylas’ ear, and with a gentle pull, he tries to dislodge the toy. But it’s too wide to simply slip out, and the elf doesn’t want to return home without his precious cargo, so he clenches around the intrusion. The human relents, pulls his trousers and coat back to their original position, and pats his ass fondly. “Vilak’s one lucky man.”

They walk back, past the barracks first, then in the right direction towards the South-Eastern gate. Once they reach it, Cadell Penry is bashful, the apples of his cheeks as red as his beard. “I hope I didn’t do anything unwelcome.”

“You really didn’t, Sir Penry. I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. And I meant it when I said you’d be doing me a favor if you told Vilak about my visit… and what happened between us.

I won’t be seeing him for a few days still, and I want him to know. I want him to come back home with the knowledge of what I’ve done here tonight.” It’s oddly easy to just confess everything to this stranger, this human who can read him like an open book.

“And are you expecting punishment for this?”

He smirks his mischievous smile, the one he uses to seduce someone. It’s worked before, it should work again.

“On the contrary, I expect praise.”

After three, four, five more rough pulls, his cock explodes in a stream of translucent cum across the foyer, landing on the small table there and on his other pair of boots that he keeps next to the front door.

His insides flutter and his ass responds the only way it knows - Aylas bears down, his entire body pushing as if he’s giving birth to his orgasm, as if he needs all the help his body can muster to help him produce this exhausting burst of cum. And with the effort, the plug is dislodged, producing a wet squelch; it goes tumbling down the leg of his trousers, carrying with itself a flood of seed that drips down his leg, until it finally falls to the floor and rolls for a good couple of meters before the door leading into the kitchen stops its path.

Once the toy is gone, there’s no amount of self restraint that can stop Aylas from pushing the rest out in thick globs of congealed cum and watery clear fluid. He sobs with the intensity of it all, and the humiliation of soiling himself like this steals every shred of coherence he had left from his being. Mindlessly, the hand fisting his prick keeps moving automatically through the whole ordeal, until the elf comes to his senses to a cock that’s just begging for a show of mercy. He takes a few long, visceral, wavering breaths to calm himself, still overwhelmed.

His brow is shiny with sweat and he hisses with how tender and sensitive his prick has gone after today’s continued assaults. His brain feels tender and gooey, too, and he just wants to throw his filthy trousers into the laundry bin, toss the ripped tunic into the trash and curl up in bed to finally rest his weary body.

Realizing that nothing nor no one is really stopping him from doing just that, he pushes any thought of cleaning up himself or the house to the following morning, and climbs upstairs to sleep perhaps the deepest slumber of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week is almost over, but Aylas is starting to feel lonely. Luckily, he won't be left alone for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Gagging and vomiting; Rape fantasy (both parties are aware of the context and while consent isn't explicit it is implied to have been given beforehand for this type of dynamic).  
> Also, there are mentions to (fake) home invasion and forceful entry, so if that's something that causes you anxiety, be careful and/or skip the first part of the chapter.
> 
> Tags have been updated, practice sex responsibly and all that. Enjoy!

In the cursed week that follows, Vilak only manages to visit him at home one other time.

After four lonesome days, Aylas’ mood is getting worse, and he feels awfully empty, especially after the exceptional display of the orc’s first day away from home. He wakes in the middle of the night after a terrible nightmare that still managed to be torturously wet and arousing even as it struck fear into his heart. His prick has stirred from slumber and his hole is pitifully clenching around nothing. Realizing that he’d forgotten to dine the previous night - too taken by despair and a lover’s malaise - he pads downstairs to the kitchen and fetches a jug of goat’s milk. It’s room temperature, thicker than a cow’s, and after the first mouthful he lets the second drink of milk linger on his tongue before swallowing it. It’s creamy, and it coats the inside of his mouth, slightly salty and so soothing when it sits in his empty stomach. He sighs from the pleasure that comes when his hunger pangs finally subside and climbs the stairs to the bedroom again, pretending it’s Vilak’s plentiful cum that’s sloshing inside him.

When he stirs awake, it’s barely dawning outside the window and only a pallid sun pours in from the shutters he’d left ajar the previous night. The room is chilly and as he groggily turns to the side under the blankets, still sleepy and incoherent, he wonders why the fuck he’d woken up well before the usual time.

The sound of heavy steps approaching the bed is barely enough warning that someone’s in the room with him. The noises of the lock turning and the front door quietly shutting behind the intruder must’ve signalled his brain to  _ wake up _ . It all happens in a split second.

A strong familiar hand closes over the crown of his head, gripping Aylas’ hair and  _ pulling _ viciously until he’s unseated from the bed. He drops onto the floor and he’s already rock hard and dizzy with the rush of blood filling his prick and the pain blooming under his knees. A second hand goes to envelop the entire back of his head in a crushing grip like a nutcracker, and the clawed fist above him draws upwards, trapping his hair around the fingers and holding him upright like a puppet kept in place by fishing wire.

Oh, his mind is already going to that floaty place where nothing else exists besides his body, being  _ used _ so thoroughly. The position alone makes him feel like a water pail, held by its handle, ready to be filled. Just an object, a receptacle. Fuck, his prick is aching painfully inside his woolen britches, threatening to burst the buttons in the front wide open.

He wants to scream in alarm, to put up a fight just to be petty, but he barely has the time to open his mouth in disdain that already a cock is pushing inside. Vilak never cared for teeth getting in the way; on the contrary, he’s always liked a good serving of genuine pain on top of his pleasure. So when Aylas tentatively closes his jaw on the generous mouthful, sharp incisors digging into the meat of the shaft before him, and is rewarded by a deep, guttural moan, any doubt is cleared from his mind.

It’s  _ his  _ Vilak, come to wake him in the best of ways after days of forced celibacy. And if the prospect of an intruder - a  _ real _ intruder breaching their home to take him unbidden - had only marginally worried his lust-addled mind, well… he already knows his tastes run towards the depraved, so it’s no surprise, really, that he wouldn’t mind getting facefucked by a stranger first thing in the morning.

Vilak’s musk is powerful, and fills his nostrils. The elf isn’t sure if it’s a dream or reality until things get into motion and his lover inexorably pushes further in, desperate to feel Aylas’ sleep-warm mouth around his entire length.

He’s all but small. Above average even among other orcs. It’s always been a pleasant challenge to deepthroat Vilak, rewarding even when the two couldn’t manage to do it properly. But today, with how desperate they both are, they might just make it.

The orc pulls back, letting him wheeze a laboured breath into his lungs before he chases the inhale with the full power of his cock. Past the swollen lips, the razor-edge menace of elven teeth, the hot tongue sitting idly, making room, the ridges of the palate and ever forward. It tickles and aches when he pushes his uvula against the back of his throat and he gags around the hard cock violating him even as he tries to relax and mindlessly swallow around it. There are better positions to do this, but he  _ wants _ it,  _ needs _ it so badly it hurts his very soul. So he shuffles forward, between Vilak’s legs. The orc’s stance his wide enough to accommodate him, and his throat sits straighter, like a funnel. The orc pumps slowly from above, like he’s dipping a brush in paint, bending his knees until they rub against Aylas’ hard nipples, up and down and up and down under his nightshirt.

The elf looks up and through the darkness enveloping the bedroom he can only see a glimmer of bared teeth and wild eyes. Tears roll down his cheeks, joining bubbles of spittle where the corners of his mouth, now entranced and forced wide open in a blissful “O” of submission, used to be.

Once Vilak’s cock bottoms out, balls so full and hot and heavy against the elf’s chin, groin producing such a heady scent where it’s effectively pinching his nose shut, impeding any manner of breathing, Aylas shudders so hard he feels as if he’s wracked by convulsions, and his eyes roll back in his skull. His scalp is burning from the hair being pulled so viciously, and his head is empty of anything save for the orc’s massive cock.

Then, it pulses hotly and the quiet room fills with laboured breaths and loud groans of pleasure, as Aylas swallows long pumps of cum, mindlessly. He doesn’t even taste it, much to his dismay, but he knows it’s moving down his esophagus in generous jets. Oh God he could die of happiness. Well-fed and well-used, finally.

But Vilak isn’t done - far from it. The past days must’ve kept him, too, awake with a painfully hard cock if his current stamina and drive are anything to judge by.

He pistons in aborted, unfinished thrusts, too sensitive to plunge in and out completely. It tickles the back of Aylas’ throat and he’s gagging uncontrollably with how unpredictable each stroke is. 

His tongue darts out, laving the orc’s drawn testicles with what could very well be bucketfuls of spit. He feels it drip down along his bulging throat and wetting his chest is thick gobs.

He heaves, trying to breathe, but everytime he feels air making its way into his lungs, Vilak’s cock chases after it, choking him again.

Just when Vilak looks like he’s about ready to get off from him, cockhead tender and sucked dry, that’s when the orc’s hands relax their grip and he slumps against the kneeling elf.

He’s going soft, but not yet and Vilak is certainly not small even when flaccid; with the change in position, his length brushes against a different spot low in his throat, previously untouched, and  _ that  _ triggers Aylas’ gag reflex.

Powerless to restrain his body’s visceral reaction to the intrusion, the elf loses his late night meal of half-digested milk and early morning cum. It’s not the worst of things one could throw up, and he feels used, abused, filthy and so, so grateful.

He coughs, his eyes filled with tears and full-bodied sobs of happiness mixed with overwhelming submission escape his stained lips. He laughs, too, hysterical and overjoyed, when he realizes the mess on the front of his night clothes boasts his own spend. He came - untouched, by sheer will of being abruptly woken up with a punitive throat fuck, with nary a word of affection or tender caress. Just hair pulling and violation. Just Vilak claiming, marking every part of Aylas.

The orc crouches down in front of his lover, takes in the breadth of the scene before him and, without hesitation, kisses the sick from Aylas’ lips, even if the simple act feels filthy.

It’s sour, slimy and like nothing else they’ve entertained before, but it’s  _ Aylas _ . What else could he do, reject him? Perish the thought. He loves all of his elf, including his filthy face, scrunched up in a storm of conflicting emotions.

He can only guess what’s going on inside his head at any given moment, and although he’s right most of the time - he’s learned to understand this beautiful, wild elf - it’s not a precise science. There’s a method to their madness, and Vilak is just glad he knows enough to read the look on Aylas face.

Laboured breathing, closed eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks and teeth worrying at his swollen, red lips.

Which is it - disgust, elation, anger?

Bliss.

  
  
  


Aylas comes to the conclusion that the rest of their time apart would be better spent if he threw himself into his work. By its nature, it’s not the perfect diversion to take his mind off of things and the underlying ache he feels for Vilak’s absence, but the professionalism and focus required by his trade keep him in check.

He’s lucky enough to be sought after and to be the provider of a relatively unique service in the city, so he can manage his own hours as he sees fit, as long as he answers the door to book appointments with prospective clients.

Weekends don’t really matter that much to Aylas, since they’re just days like any other. But for Vilak, weekends are a gamble - some weeks he can take time off just like most other soldiers do, free to roam the city and get some rest; other times, like now, his duties extend beyond the simple training he needs to perform at camp, and he has to stay to organize and plan for the future of new recruits. It’s boring work, it does nothing to satisfy Vilak’s interest in the career he’s chosen, and it keeps him away from home longer than strictly necessary. Only, this  _ is  _ necessary as well, and he really doesn’t have a say in the matter.

So, it’s only fair that if Vilak is busy working, Aylas at least attempts to do the same.

He gets to the workshop quite early in the morning, makes a pot of tea for customers if they’re so inclined, and pours himself a cup while he waits for clients to come inside.

He sketches a few designs he thinks some regulars might enjoy, then he gets inevitably lost in thought at the idea of adorning Vilak’s muscled back with new ink.

There’s something so raw and energizing about transforming a person’s body with tattoos and body modifications until they’re happy with their looks, and Aylas would say this is the only part of his elven heritage he truly enjoys. He likes handling needles, and he’s been blessed by a steady hand, so he’s more than happy to decorate someone’s skin and flesh when they so choose.

The only one who doesn’t really have a choice in that is Vilak. For the orc, it has a different meaning and, ever since the beginning of their relationship, it has always been clear between them that Aylas would decide when and how to mark him. Vilak trusts his taste as far as the artistic aspect of it is concerned, and he doesn’t need (nor  _ want _ ) to know anything else, so everything is in Aylas’ hands - from how long it takes, to how painful it is, to where the needle pierces.

Before he has time to daydream about the endless possibilities, the bell above the door jingles brightly, and someone enters the shop.

It’s a young man, human, tall and with a slender frame, and he’s inquiring about getting his nipples pierced. Aylas is more than happy to show off his own bejeweled buds and point out the different styles he has available (his stock is running low, he’ll need to take care of that) before explaining the process to the customer and, once he’s convinced he wants to get through with it, surveying his body to best position the barbells he picked.

The client, Laumer, has a flat chest, lightly defined with muscles and hairless. His nipples stay relatively flat, but it’s easy enough to coax them to stand out for the procedure. Framing the crease where his pectorals end, the young man has fading scars, identical on both sides and clearly surgical in nature, and Aylas makes small talk about the decision to pierce his nipples. Eventually, as he disinfects the area and prepares his tools, the conversations shifts towards the benefits of such modifications in the bedroom.

As he expected, Laumer wants to decorate his body in a way that makes him feel better about his appearance, distracting from the scars and drawing the eye to his chest, finally flat after a lifetime of grief. Aylas is happy for him and proceeds to clamp and pierce through one nipple, then the other. By the end, there are two beautiful platinum baubles defining each nipple and Laumer is beyond satisfied with the work done. He pays and swears that, as soon as the new jewellery has settled in, he’ll be in the market to get more piercings done. After their intimate conversation, Aylas doesn’t doubt that he’ll be back; he recognizes in Laumer’s eyes the same mischievous spark he’d worn proudly when he first started working on himself.

Two soldiers come by the following evening, slightly tipsy and looking to get matching tattoos to commemorate the recent victory near the mountains against the enemy troops. The war doesn’t seem to cease, but it’s not coming to a head, either; it looks more like two countries defending their own territory while thinking the other intends to attack, instead of doing just the same. And yet, warriors die in the squabble. People go hungry, especially further north. Vilak’s role keeps him safe enough, he hasn’t seen active duty since he was a much younger man, but what if something happens that pushes the enemy into attacking - truly attacking them? Aylas doesn’t want to think about losing Vilak to the battlefield more than he has to when living in a city that is a glorified military base, and finds some relief from such dark thoughts when the pair of customers declare they want to get their buttocks tattooed. Now,  _ that _ is something he can definitely do.

The older man is tall and muscular. He’s bald and his face is warm and red from the alcohol imbibed at the tavern next door. Aylas is ever so grateful that his workshops sits in that particular spot, he’s had more than his fair share of drunk and emboldened people come in requesting his skill. He rebuffs them at times, but most of the people of the city have done far worse under the influence of alcohol, and he’s not particularly keen on arguing with them when they ask for a small tattoo or extemporaneous earring. This man waits for his turn, laughing to himself and stroking the small of the other man’s back while Aylas gets to work, to reassure his friend, to keep his hands busy and not give in to the nervousness, and perhaps to demonstrate affection to a brother in arms. The buttock Aylas is inking is soft and round, the man a younger soldier. He’s a bit pudgy and his face is open and bright, and Aylas suspect he might be involved elsewhere, away from the frontlines. He wants to ask, but every time he’s about to, the two friends look at each other, blush, and burst into laughter. Better not to sour the moment with talk of work and military duties.

It’s almost midnight when he’s done. The men turn to the full-length mirror next to the wall at the back of the shop and, over their shoulders, they look at the pairs of antlers gracing their asses. Aylas has done a great job, with the unmistakable silhouette of a stag head and graceful, entwined stylized antlers moving upwards.

Just as the two soldiers are about to exit the shop, Aylas notices Vilak across the street, making his way towards the entrance.

The customers leave and upon seeing the expression Vilak is wearing, Aylas immediately knows what his lover needs right now.

The orc’s face is sunken, and he looks much older than his age, with worry lines framing his tuskless frown. His eyebrows are knit together, his eyes downcast, and he looks deflated. Whatever happened in the past few days hasn’t left him in a good mood.

Aylas pulls him into a long, tight hug and little by little Vilak’s posture softens, and his arms envelop the elf with less urgence.

“Settle down, love. Everything’s ready, I’ll be with you in a moment.” he whispers in Vilak’s ear.

He moves towards the door and turns the sign so that “Closed” faces the street, then he pulls down the blinds, obscuring the view from outside. He douses the lantern near the entrance and moves with purpose to the back room where Vilak’s already waiting for him. He knew this was a possibility, and he got to the shop prepared for the eventuality of Vilak needing him so badly.

He’s ready to give him all the pain he longs for.


End file.
